


The Long Drive Home

by stackcats



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pre-Series, trainee priest Jamie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 02:33:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stackcats/pseuds/stackcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malcolm's stranded on a cold, damp island off the north-west coast after the funeral of an uncle he never really knew. The only person around to help him is a rather surprising trainee priest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Is Everything On This Island Fucked?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benjycompson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/benjycompson/gifts).



> Inspired by "The Great Escape", an awesome sketch by benjycompson.

It’s starting to rain. Of _course_ it is. Malcolm squelches across the muddy turf, away from the carpark, the last of the other mourners pulling away in an old black Cavalier. He could, he supposes, wave his arms and get someone to come back and give him a lift, but he’s had his fill of every single one of the dismal old fucks.

 

So he picks his way back towards the chapel, where the service was held. Scrapes the mud off his shoes on the battered old doormat, and wanders back into the dusty coolness of the stone building, peering along the aisle.

 

The old priest is gone, but there’s a young one, picking up the hymn sheets and dusting the pews. He’s humming something Malcolm can’t place but which he’s pretty sure is Bowie. Bit weird. Whole sodding island’s a bit weird though. Malcolm coughs.

 

“’Scuse me?”

 

“Oh.” The wee priest stops what he’s doing and puts on a rather exaggerated version of a sombre expression. “Sorry for your loss, friend.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. You boys got a phone? My car’s fucked.”

 

“Er, no. Sorry.”

 

“What? You don’t have a _phone_?”

 

The priest shrugs. “Phone’s fucked too. Co-incidence, eh?”

 

Malcolm shrugs. He doesn’t have time for this. It’s Saturday, and he has to get off this island today or it’ll be _Sunday_ , and then he’ll really be up the creek without a whatever.

 

“The old man around? The one that did the service?”

 

The priest shakes his head. “Nope. He’s gone for a wee lie down and a, y’know.” He mimes smoking what Malcolm would guess, in any other context, is a spliff. “He’s a bit pissed off you lot wanted the sermon all in Gaelic. He’s not a fan. Latin or nothing. The fuck’d you want the sermon in Gaelic for?”

 

“None of your fucking business. Nothing to do with me, anyway.” Actually, Malcolm had appreciated the idea. Gave him an excuse for his zoned-out expression, not knowing what the hell anyone was saying. “You’ve seriously not got a fucking phone?”

 

“Nope. Lightning took it out last week.”

 

Malcolm looks up at the vaulted ceiling. “No conductor?”

 

“Came off in a storm. Want me to have a look at your car? My da was a mechanic. Not a good one, but I learned what not to do.”

 

There aren’t many options, so Malcolm leads the way back out to the gravel car park, where the young priest pops the bonnet of the car and leans over for a look. Malcolm has a look too, but not at the car. The lad’s younger than him by a few years, compact, fit, with a scruff of thick black hair and the most ridiculously blue eyes Malcolm has ever seen. Black suits him, but what a fucking waste.

 

“Can you start the engine?”

 

Malcolm goes round to the driver’s side and tries the key. The engine splutters and dies.

 

“Yep,” says the priest.

 

“Yep?”

 

“You’re right, it’s fucked.”

 

“Is there a mechanic in town?”

 

“Oh aye.”

 

“Great. Okay, but no phone.”

 

The priest shrugs. “I could drive.”

 

Malcolm begins to relax. He’s going to get back to the mainland and he’ll make his flight to Heathrow. “Great. Thanks, Father.”

 

“Oh, I’m still just training. Whose car is that?”

 

Malcolm looks over at an old convertible with the top down. “Dunno, some old woman from the village. A ’friend’ of my uncle.” He pronounces the inverted commas with a practiced precision. “Think she took a weird turn and got a lift home. Why?”

 

The lad’s already vaulting into the driver’s seat. “My car’s fucked too.”

 

And that’s how Malcolm ends up standing guard in the rain while a small priest hotwires a car for them to steal.


	2. Plenty More Wildlife Where That Came From

Lumpy scenery rolls by in purplish, greyish green as thunderheads mass behind the hills. The road has a lot of potholes, and the priest manages to hit every single one, then tries to accelerate over a cattle grid. Malcolm watches out for the fuzz and tries to find a way to get the roof up while they’re moving.

 

“Why aren’t you at the wake?” asks the priest.

 

“Got a flight to catch.”

 

“From the airstrip?”

 

“From Inverness.”

 

“Oh. That’s miles and miles from here.”

 

Malcolm is aware of the general geography, so doesn’t deign to respond to that. He gives up on the roof and resigns himself to getting soaked.

 

“I’m Jamie, by the way.”

 

“Malcolm. Ah! – did you even fucking _see_ that rabbit?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“Christ.”

 

“Okay, look – may the Lord Jesus Christ lead this bunny to eternal life. Better?”

 

“You are a _shit_ priest. How did you even end up here?”

 

“They put all the shit priests on shit islands.” There’s bitterness there. A _lot_ of bitterness.

 

“Have you tried being _less_ shit?”

 

Jamie shrugs. “I wrote things the college newspaper wouldn’t print, so I printed my own rag and handed it round and there was a bit of a general riot, several meetings, and – bam! – shit island.” He aims the car for a seagull, which flaps out of the way in time. “Bastard thing. Anyway, it’s not so bad. You should see the shit island they put my room-mate on. He was a fucking retard, though.”

 

Malcolm watches a road sign flick past the window.

 

“Oi, we’re going the wrong way.”

 

“ _You_ might be, but I’m not.”


	3. There Are Worse Weeks To Come, But Better Ones Too

“Turn around! Pull over up there and do a fucking U-turn or I’ll-“

 

“What? You’ll hit a priest?”

 

“A fucking shitty wannabe hack of an unqualified priest, yes!”

 

Jamie doesn’t respond, just keeps on driving straight past the widened bit of the road where he could have turned. Malcolm lets out a string of energetic and creative curses, but Jamie just starts humming again.

 

The week started out shit, with the phone call and Malcolm’s mum sobbing like he’s never heard before. Then it turned worse when she called and asked him to come out to the Islands and be there for the funeral because she ‘wasn’t coping’. Last night had brought the news that she was staying here a while, and he’d have to take his sister home to London with him and find a school for her to finish her final year, which is fucking _ridiculous_ , but you cannae argue with your mum at her brother’s funeral, and especially not in front of the old Highland aunts who watch everything and judge everyone in solemn Gaelic. Then there was the car – which isn’t even his, it belongs to a friend in Inverness – breaking down, and _then_ there was the rain and no phone and _now_ he’s been kidnapped by a psycho in a cassock.

 

Malcolm just wants to go home. He’s got work to do. He hasn’t seen a newspaper in three days. The PM could have been killed in a direct meteor strike and he’d have no clue, none of his relatives has a  fucking telly, and the radio never has news from further south than Fort William, and he hates this place and everyone in it, but especially the prick currently driving him into the middle of nowhere to, presumably, rape and murder him, and bury him under a rock.

 

“Where are you fucking taking me?”

 

“I didnae actually _ask_ ye to come.”

 

“What?”

 

“Been wanting tae do this fer weeks. See that town?”

 

Malcolm peers through the rain. He can’t see much at all, but up ahead there’s the suggestion of a tiny settlement around a small bay with boats in it. He’s not sure if that’s the ocean or a loch or what, but boats are good. Boats go to the mainland.

 

“What about it?”

 

“There’s a bloke lives just the other side o’there, handsome young bloke, married to the sweetest wee lass.”

 

“How lovely,” Malcolm drawls.

 

“Not lovely. He tells me in confession every week that he hits her, _and_ he’s shagging other lassies every other night. So guess what I’m gonnae do tae him?”

 

“Prescribe ten hail Marys and implore him to mend his ways?”

 

“Nope. Gonnae kick thirteen shades of fresh shit out of him.”


	4. The First Scheme Of Many

Malcolm has noticed a few things about Jamie; he’s a lunatic, he’s the worst priest Malcolm has ever met, and he looks like what would hatch out of an egg laid by a crocodile that’s been roundly fucked by a very fluffy bunny rabbit. 

 

He does not, however, appear to be a liar.

 

The car pulls up outside a small house, and Jamie jumps out. Malcolm opens the passenger-side door and gets out too, racing after him across the damp, stony ground.

 

“Hey – _hey!_ ”

 

He catches up with Jamie half-way up the garden path, grabs his arm, but gets thrown off. He makes another desperate grab and gets hold of Jamie’s collar.

 

“You can’t just beat people up, you dumbfuck.”

 

“Aye, I can,” says Jamie, and punches Malcolm, hard, catching him on the nose. Malcolm staggers and falls on his arse in the mud, coarse little stones cutting up his hands and arms as he sprawls. Jamie grins down at him. “See?”

 

Malcolm hisses in surprise and alarm, and launches himself at Jamie’s legs. There’s a brief moment where it looks like the stocky wee bastard will hold his ground, then his shoe slips on the wet turf and he’s falling. Malcolm scrambles out of the way, but as soon as Jamie’s down he’s on him, pinning him down in the mud. Jamie struggles, but can’t push himself up, everything’s too damp, and Malcolm might be scrawny as fuck but he does have _some_ body weight to work with.

 

“You can’t stop me,” Jamie snarls. “I’m gonnae fucking _maim_ the bastard!”

 

“Don’t be so fucking stupid!”

 

“You think a man can hit his wife, but I can’t hit him? You sick fuck-“

 

“No, will you fucking _listen_ to me?” Malcolm glances at the house. There’s no light on, no sign of movement, and for that matter no car in the driveway, except their own waterlogged, stolen vehicle. “Firstly, there’s nobody home, so what’re you gonnae do? Hide in a cupboard and jump out at him?”

 

“Aye, if I havetae!”

 

“ _Secondly_ ,” Malcolm shoves Jamie firmly back down in the mud, “what do ye think will happen then, eh? You hurt him, you humiliate him, you make him miserable, then what? A man like that? Who do you think he’s going to take it out on? If you think for a _moment_ this is going to help _her_ , then you’re a clueless fucking moron.”

 

That pulls Jamie up. He stops struggling for a moment, then aims a punch at Malcolm’s ribs, but Malcolm sees it coming, rolls off him, and decks him. He’s aiming for a cuff to the side of Jamie’s head, but gets him in the eye and sends him sprawling again. Malcolm gets up and backs off – he’s sore, he doesn’t want to do this, but he suspects that Jamie, deprived of an honourable fight in the name of all that’s holy, will settle for a meaningless scuffle with Malcolm in the dirt.

 

Jamie, however, scrambles to his feet and stands, staring at the house.

 

“What would you do, then?”

 

“Me?” Malcolm looks at the house too. “Hmm. Think we can get inside?”


	5. To Break And To Enter

The house is pretty small, just a kitchen and living/dining space on the ground level, and two small bedrooms upstairs, with a bathroom between them. Jamie tucks his lock-picks back into his cassock, and Malcolm (who hadn’t been entirely surprised to see said lock-picks at this stage) heads straight through the kitchen and stands in the lounge, looking around. There’s not much in the way of decoration. A few framed photos, some flowers in a vase on the table, a couple of trinkets. Clean and tidy.

 

“This guy’s Catholic?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“I mean _really_ Catholic? He’s properly religious?”

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

“Religious people are fucking idiots.”

 

“Fuck you, pal. So what’re we gonnae do? Trash the place?”

 

“You want to prove my point a little harder, or…?” Malcolm looks around. “What does this guy do?”

 

“He’s a tech at the local radio station.”

 

“Really? I can definitely work with that, there’s probably... what’s his name?”

 

“Andrew Harrison. Why?”

 

Malcolm opens the cupboards and roots around inside. There’s some fishing gear, a pair of skis, empty suitcases, lots of normal cupboard junk. There’s also some slightly amateur-ish recording equipment. Malcolm pulls out a microphone, then roots a little deeper until he finds a drawer containing half a dozen VHS tapes, fairly well hidden from a casual glance. He hands one to Jamie.

 

“See if that’s what I think it is.”

 

Jamie slots the tape into the video player and turns the TV on. After a few moments of black and white fuzz, they’re looking at a woman with enormous tits in a badly fitting bikini, lounging beside a pool. Malcolm suspects the man cleaning the pool in the background will become a key player in the story that is to unfold.

 

Jamie gives him an ancient look. “If ye wanted tae watch porn with me, you only had tae say.”

 

“Priests don’t watch porn.”

 

“I’m only-“

 

“Training, I know. Okay, I have a plan, but he knows your voice, so you go and keep a look out, okay? Maybe even get the car ready to go.”

 

Jamie bounces slightly on the balls of his feet, hands shoved into the pockets of his black trousers. “What’re you gonnae do?”

 

Malcolm grins. “I’ll show you when I’m done. Go on, fuck off.”


	6. Voices From On High

Malcolm works quickly, grinning the whole time, and when he’s done he calls Jamie back in from the car. The wee priest looks scruffier than ever, his baby face beginning to bruise, his split lip making him look a bit roguish. Malcolm puts in one of the tapes, fast-forwards a little, then presses play just as things are getting interesting between the busty blonde and her pool mechanic friend.

 

“Seriously,” says Jamie, “I’m not even into fake tits. Can we watch somethin’ else?”

 

“No.” Malcolm is carefully putting everything back exactly where he found it. He waves a hand at the screen. “Listen.”

 

There’s a steady litany coming from the TV, _oh god, yes, fuck me, fuck me harder, oh yes, I need your cock, ooooohhhh baby,_ but suddenly the girl’s voice fades out and a deep, masculine voice fades in – Malcolm’s voice, deeper than usual, but he’s been learning at work lately that his voice carries a lot of power – much more than his slight frame alone. He’s made a few interns run off whimpering, and found that to be very, very satisfying indeed.

 

 _Andrew!_ His voice booms. _Andrew Harrison. You have confessed your sins to God but you have not changed your ways. Repent, Andrew Harrison, and become a changed man. Repent or be doomed! Repent or burn in Hell!_

 

Then the original audio fades back in. _Give it to me, baby, give me your big cock, ooooohhhhh…_

 

Jamie falls back in the chair, cackling with mad laughter.

 

“Now imagine hearing that with your cock in hand, eh?”

 

“Oh,” says Jamie, “I am. You’ve _improved_ it. I’m actually about to come any second now. Did you do them all?”

 

“Yep.”

 

“Epic shit. But what if it doesn’t work?”

 

“Well, then I suggest you tell the fucking _cops_ , you tiny fucking mad person. Let’s get out of here before someone comes home.”

 

Malcolm puts the last tape carefully away, and they check the coast is clear before sneaking out and back to the car. Malcolm elbows Jamie out of the way.

 

“I’m driving. You’re a fucking menace.”

 

Malcolm drives them with very pointed and particular care back into town. Jamie sits in the passenger seat and delicately touches his bruised eye.

 

“Ye got me a good one there.”

 

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry to ruin your pretty face, but you fucking started it.”

 

“Hey, you missed that squirrel.”

 

“Put your fucking seatbelt on. Your God is not looking out for you – he sent a storm to rip off your lightning conductor. You’re putting your life in _his_ hands?”

 

The rain eases as they pull into town. ‘Town’, in this instance, being a pretty fucking generous term. There’s a main street, half a dozen central residential streets, and some out-lying areas of less dense housing. There’s also a pier, and a supermarket just on the outskirts. Jamie gives directions and they pull up outside a garage with a couple of old cars out the front. The shutters are down, but Malcolm gets out and looks around for a bell or a knocker. In the end, he raps his knuckles on the corrugated iron garage door.

 

“What’re you doing?” Jamie calls.

 

“Trying to get the guy’s attention, what does it look like?”

 

“What, Harry?”

 

“Is that the mechanic?”

 

“Yeah. He’s not here.”

 

Malcolm trots back to the car and stands there staring down at Jamie.

 

“You said there’s a mechanic in town.”

 

“There is. He’s not open on weekends.”

 

 Malcolm looks up. “Does he live above the shop?”

 

“Oh, aye.”

 

“Okay.” He goes back to the building, into the alleyway, and rings the doorbell for the flats above the garage. Nothing happens. He tries again a couple of times, then goes back to the car.

 

Without looking up, Jamie says, “He spends weekends on the mainland.”

 

Malcolm takes five minutes to kick the car, call Jamie a cunt, kick the garage doors, call Jamie a cunt again along with a few other choice insults, and, finally, kick the tire of one of the old cars. Once he’s hurt his foot enough to veer him off-course from furious and back towards miserable, he goes back and sits next to Jamie in the driver’s seat of the convertible.

 

“I need,” he says, through gritted teeth, “to catch that flight. I have a job. I need to be at it on Monday or they might fire me.”

 

“I’m not seeing the problem,” says Jamie.

 

“My fucking _car_ is fucking _fucked_.”

 

“This one isn’t.”

 

“This one belongs to someone else. Thou shalt not steal? Ever fucking heard that before?”

 

Jamie shrugs. “Probably. We’ll give it back. Let’s just get ye tae the airport first, aye?”

 

A few things have been occurring to Malcolm in quick succession. Firstly, that he should have let Jamie get out and go to Andrew Whatshisface’s house and just driven the car away. Secondly, if he’d done that he’d still be going round town asking after the mechanic. Thirdly, the old bitch who owns the car really was exceptionally annoying, and quite unnecessarily rude to him when he told her he worked in London politics. Fourthly, that Jamie is looking at him, and when Jamie looks at him the inside of his skull itches quite intensely.

 

“Okay,” he says, slowly. “Fine. I’ll take this car to the airport, but you’re coming too.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You’ll have to drive, in case we come across cops.”

 

“Oh, aye? So you’re gonnae turn me in if it comes tae it?”

 

“Yes, that. And also because I don’t have a driver’s licence.”


	7. The Day Of The Lord Will Come Like A Thief In The Night

The road to Inverness is long and winding, and the fog is thick, and Jamie has started singing. Malcolm spends the journey in a state of limbo; he wants to go fast, so he doesn’t miss his flight, but he’s also quite justifiably concerned for his life with Jamie at the wheel.

 

“ _You’re sent from Heaven and I know your worth, you made a heaven for me right here on Earth_ …”

 

“Is that a hymn?”

 

“Might as fucking well be!”

 

In the end, caution wins out. He doesn’t egg Jamie on to go faster, but five p.m. rolls around and there’s still fifty miles to go.

 

“We can do it,” Jamie re-assures him.

 

“No,” Malcolm sighs, “we can’t. Boarding closes in half an hour. I’ve fucking missed it.”

 

“Fog’s getting pretty soupy.”

 

Malcolm can just about see the nearest foothills on either side, but nothing much beyond. Jamie’s right. They slow to a crawl, both of them looking out for somewhere to stop, Jamie convinced there’s a guesthouse around here somewhere. Malcolm supposes all is not lost. He can fly from Inverness on a Sunday. There’s another question pressing for attention – Jamie, for reasons he doesn’t entirely want to examine right now, stimulates his curiosity.

 

“This article you wrote? The one that got you exiled to The Island That Time Forgot. What was it?”

 

“More like a pamphlet, actually.”

 

“Yeah? What about?”

 

“Well, religious shit, obviously. It was for the seminary school newspaper. Except they didn’t like it.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Jamie glances at him. Those blue eyes are all Malcolm can fucking see in the dark and the fog.

 

“I’ve got this idea, right, that the Second Coming – you know what that is?”

 

“I’m not a retarded cocker spaniel, so yes.”

 

“Well, Jesus was a fucking socialist, wasn’t he, right? So the Second Coming will basically be – it might even be metaphorical, right? When Jesus comes back, he’ll bring the answer. How to run a non-fucked up socialist state. That’s paradise on Earth, okay? Or maybe the answer is a metaphor, or a stand-in for the actual flesh-and-blood Jesus, maybe he won’t be coming at all, we’ll just figuratively ascend to Heaven, as a species, when we’ve figured that shit out. Um. I think that was the bit they really hated. And I suppose there’s very little scriptural support for it – they’re pretty fucking hung-up on scripture.”

 

Malcolm’s aware his mouth is slightly open. He closes it. He looks back at the road, and they continue driving on in silence.

 

Twenty minutes later, they’re pulling into the driveway of a white-daubed B&B with a ‘vacancy’ sign outside. Just as Jamie’s turning off the engine, Malcolm’s mouth wins the battle it’s been having with his brain ever since Jamie last spoke.

 

“Do you,” he says, while for some reason putting his hand on Jamie’s shoulder, “want a new job?”

 

“You need a driver? Do you really not have a licence?”

 

“No and yes. Not a driver. I’m a senior press officer, and we’re hiring.”

 

The car stops outside the B&B. Jamie keeps his hands on the wheel, still staring straight ahead.

 

“You’re a press officer for whom?”

 

“You just over-qualified yourself with that _whom_ , but I’ll look past it.”

 

“Who’d you work for?”

 

“I work in London for an ugly fucker called Steve. Do you want to come with me, or not?”

 

“So… I’ve got to say if I want the job before you’ll tell me what it is?”

 

Malcolm leans back and smiles. “Yep.”

 

They sit there in the fog, the cold, and the drizzle, in their stolen car in the middle of nowhere. Jamie frowns and chews on his bottom lip. Malcolm wants to fucking _bite_ him right now. On the throat, preferably, just above that white collar, but he resists the urge and waits Jamie out.

 

“Fuck it,” says Jamie, “I’ll do it.”


	8. The Way Home

The B&B has one room left, which Malcolm puts on his credit card. He makes Jamie buy them a couple of sandwiches, which the manager lets them take up to their room.

 

It’s a chintzy affair. The off-pink flower pattern of the over-stuffed armchair in the corner actually clashes with the off-in-another-direction pink flower patterned coverlets draped over the two single beds. There’s a washbasin under the window, and a shared bathroom with toilet and shower for the whole floor. Malcolm grumbles about that under his breath, but Jamie just throws himself down in the chair and tucks his knees up under his chin, feet on the seat.

 

“Take your shoes off,” Malcolm snaps. Jamie, amazingly, obliges.

 

“Okay, now you do have to tell me what my new job is, otherwise I might find it a bit _too_ challenging.”

 

Malcolm’s investigating the cupboards. There’s an iron in there, but no board, and nothing else other than a few wire coat hangers. Fucking cheap-arses, these B&B bastards.

 

“We work for the government,” he says before he can help himself. He makes a face. “The _future_ government. We hope. We fucking _will_ be. Your job will involve shaming, humiliating, degrading, and otherwise tormenting, mostly via the press, any and every Tory cunt in the land. How’s that sounding?”

 

“Does it involve any sexual abstinence? Is drinking and drug use frowned on in any way?”

 

“The only rules you need to worry about are the ones laid down in the Gospel According to Malcolm Tucker, a copy of which will be issued with your contract.”

 

“And _do_ you require sexual abstinence?”

 

Malcolm thinks he might actually pass out if he can’t bite Jamie. His voice clogs a bit in his throat when he says, “I emphatically _discourage_ it.”

 

“Thank fuck for that.”

 

They both move at once, Jamie leaping out of the chair, Malcolm darting across the room, and they crash into each other half way. The kiss is open-mouthed, desperate, and quite definitely the most obscene thing that has happened to Malcolm in a very long time. He grabs whatever bits of Jamie he can – hair, clothes, _arse_ – and he knows he’s making a godawful whining noise but in his defence Jamie kisses like he does everything else, with an utterly reckless abandon and with every part of his body and soul. They’re wrapped in each other, no air between them, Jamie pawing at him in the same touch-starved way, his hands getting beneath Malcolm’s clothes, and _fuck it_ , there’s no point messing about – Malcolm manhandles Jamie down onto the bed, climbs on top of him, and finally sinks his teeth into the soft skin just above that stupid priest’s collar.

 

Jamie’s an utter mess beneath him, writhing and grabbing, arching and moaning, and Malcolm can’t even be bothered to pretend his stamina is up to this. It’s been too long. Jamie’s strong legs wrap around his hips, and Malcolm ruts against him, pausing briefly when it all becomes too _tight_ and he gets a hand between them to unzip himself. He squeezes Jamie’s hard-on through the black fabric of his trousers, grinning as the ridiculous little cunt practically comes up off the bed, then undoes Jamie’s fly, shoves down his underwear, and wraps a hand around both of them.

 

It really doesn’t take long, but there’s no expectations in this room, and anyway, Jamie comes first. Malcolm is right there too, the instant he realises what’s happening, and they must be on the same resonant frequency because Malcolm’s shuddering into a thousand tiny pieces that all tumble down in a heap on the bed.

 

Jamie immediately snuggles up against him. Not that there’s much option to _not_ snuggle on the narrow bed, but this is un-ambiguous and quite shameless cuddling. Malcolm’s never cuddled a guy before – fucked a few, never cuddled. He rearranges them slightly so that Jamie’s nestled up against his side, arm draped over his chest, nose pressed into his neck. The wee cunt’s already asleep before Malcolm’s even comfy, but Malcolm decides he can put up with this.

 

He’s had problems with insomnia since he was a kid, with no doctor able to prescribe anything that’s brought him a full night’s sleep. Tonight, though, he doesn’t have a problem drifting off. After all, there’s a lot to be done tomorrow, and it’s still a long way home.


End file.
